Eyes wide
you do not allow
oblivious sleep
shadows branded
on my retina
reveal all contrast
tattooed on my shoulder
a skeletal hand
this illusion  
pins me down

your questions
have no answers
questions remain
asked again and again
I swear
I know nothing

You say everything
is immaterial
subjectively real
ideas existent
in the mind
of the perceiver
I am
(you insist)
a true believer

Parched and shrinking
I ask for mercy
you bring the cup
to my fissured lips
but it is empty
a vessel of air
you murmur
there is only enough
for one
what will you give
in return?

Heavy metal
arpeggios of wind
head bang
petulant faces
inured to rain
a repeating refrain
in falsehood
lies your truth

but even you
cannot halt the dawn
a dark horizon
pulls the strings
powerless
you sink
behind the cloud-
wall of your storm

is it safe now to close my eyes?
three times whisper
be gone
              bright fiend
a weary incantation
spell of protection
the yawning wind
done with howling
hums reassuringly
                            
                       *“a change is gonna come
                                                            ­      imagine
                                                   ­                            peace in our time”

INTP
Introvert
Intuitive
Thinker
Perceiver
Highly intellectual but
score lower than expected on
standardized tests
Fascinated with the world
Plan maker and
abandoner
Frighteningly unemotional and seemingly moves on from devastating events rapidly
Acts self absorbed but
truly cares for people under the cold exterior
Often feels detached from the world
Unable to articulate great idea and thoughts exactly
Loves to argue and debate
for learning sake but
some don’t see it as
friendly banter
Called the mad scientist without
convention
An absent-minded wonderfully built learner,
That INTP

Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder. I, myself, believe that it lie in the hand of the perceiver.

Qualia, if they exist, describe experience.

Perceptions are frames of consciousness
that define experience: would they be given a number
representing frames per second [FPS].

There must be something to perceive
for there to be experience, and the perceiver:
A machine/dreamer through which energy flows
for perception to occur; neural oscillation cycles
equating to perceptual frames of consciousness
where a frequency would equal a certain FPS.

A moment in a dream, a quale.
The realm of the Oneiroi beckons:

During REM sleep there is no experiential context,
Suppose a dream's content is be sourced from memory:
Thence memory morphs into dreaming. Perhaps the actions
of acetylcholine during sleep disrupt temporality, meanwhile
serotonin and norepinephrine play another role in dream activity;
Were dopamine ever-so minutely implicit in lucidity?

If a dream could be quantized could we identify a quale?
The goal, to prove that qualia exist. Perhaps this 'heavy realm'
could then be described using this qualitative formula, we strive
to produce a quantum of experience.

As analogue is to digital, so digital should be to quanta.
Ah, but who would ever listen
to my nonsense.

I'm just a dreamer
and such a chancer. (Aren't we all?)

nothing is created nor destroyed, 
energy to mater, only changed.how many forms are there that are being changed between-
the good and the bad in the world,
is that the purpose?. get the most out of a net zero game-at what point does there become so much something that it becomes the nothing and  the nothing: the something. what is the difference between a blank white and a blank black sheet of paper. at which point do the negative and the positive space switch definitions? does it need to be perceived to be real? and if in the end, when there is all of one thing, and none of the other left anymore, does the other start to grow and become the new something?
the behaviors of subatomic particles and the units which compose what we think of: change when observed, what else changes when observed. electrons become particles, electrons become waves. in one place. now another. both never and always here and there.
and
i often wonder if i'm crazy
of if everyone else is crazy and i'm among the sane. few and far between.
of if we are all crazy together,
and the craziest thing of all is that we never let each other know just how crazy we are.

that would truly be the most tragic.

for each and every individually to believe so much. feel so much. break apart so much in every instant as to doubt the sanity of their each and every moment.
and
never be able to tell you exactly how it feels, or even to hardly
try
while all along, i know. and you know. and they know. exactly what they could mean.
if only they could ever decide to talk about it.

or if words and impressions were enough to know someone by

i wonder if you've sat in the bath tub as a child- while the water was running out all around you
pensive about the whirlpool twisting everything small and fluid around it down the drain.
i wonder if you've wondered what it would feel like to be really small in the water as it got ****** down- not an object, just a view-point.maybe like a disembodied perceiver that can see and touch and feel. and what would it feel like. and be like to be washed down and plunged into swirling sensory overload.

almost like something that would happen on the magic school bus.

what if at every instant we could be everywhere in a way like that. every possible place the magic school bus could go. or explore. or know. we could be. all at once.

but at the same time we would be big too, so we could put it all into perspective  make sense of all things things and live by them. live in a way where we knew how to be right to each other because that was true.

what is we could magicschoolbus into things that were not physical- like feelings. and love. and comfort. and personalities

that would be pretty cool.

what if everyone i meet, knew instantly that i was the first born of the many cousins on my dad's side. and that my grandma lived downstairs and  my aunts and uncles were always there. and i was babied. and all the time i was was young, there were babies and children and people who loved them there. and i was always around that and that i have never left that place. and that i am young.
and i am very sweet. and very sincere if i can get the chance but i cant; get the chance anymore because its hard. and i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. for my casual insincerity and defenses because all of my stoicism is me so full of feeling but i'm not supposed to show it anymore.  and all the people i can't run up to and hug anymore would know. and that at any given moment- i'd give anything just to make a blanket fort and fill it with stuffed animals. but i'd look pretty foolish. and everyone would probably say i was mentally handicapped. even the ones who used to baby me. and the babies i built them with.

isn't that something.

Those chanting waves breathe the void!
Circling into mental quietude
Enter where the Lord of Form rests in a
Constant stand still.

Around that cyclic circle of life-fire
His minions utter noises of non-meaning
to praise the very notion of sound and being!

Chant, chant, chant to reveal this eternal
moment we all reside in showing love and
understanding regardless of who or what.

What level can you reach in your human form?
Can you touch the void with the form of fingers?
Chant yourself into oblivion and god..
Go beyond chanting.
Go beyond god.
Go beyond the beyond.
Touch the void where there is no longer perceiver nor perceived.
There you can reach the inner state of emptiness from
which all form comes from.

Like a giant Sequoia tree, well aged and outwardly still tall and firmly anchored                                        
I proudly display, my outer senescent bark, but inside, I’m pitted and cankered

Still majestic and straight, branches spread, with fingered needles reaching for the sky                            
But at each limb joint, those cracks lay hidden; not yet visible, to the naked eye

Those blisters ravage and rage, at my inner trunk; but not, so you can clearly see                                                                                    
Hidden by the sap; like those morning rheum tears, which seep out and crust on me

I reach skyward, extend my branches to the sun; my sieve tubes there unplugged                                                                                  
But below, my veins congested, and my arteries full of sap, are fully clogged  

And yet I stand, without an outward tremble; disguising well the tremors in my roots                                  
With all my strength, I will them hold; do not cede, to the pain that in them shoots                                                        

I will perceiver; not able to bend with the wind, I stand firm still; until I break                                              
Stiffen my resolve; until my fluids coagulate, and rigor mortise does me overtake                                
BOEMS BY JA 397

The Oxidant is ever defined by the history of the orient
The context is a mystery until found,

like the minutiae of what an explorer meant
when they added an image to their diaries

There was this specific image where

A giant fish pulls a boat

Waves crashing
from the background to the fore

Cascading, swirling whites and greens,
but effervescent blues show up more

Atman means self, which never dies
Are we the fish or on the boat?

When waves birthed from typhoons
land down sorely and the hull breaks apart

Does the world break too?

Are we the ocean of conditions
through which the fish ferries
the boat of the ego?

Or perhaps the birds eye resident,
a view set between the dual wings
of the present and past sets.

Are we the mind that dreams the future? What is possible entangled through the perceiver’s sight, awareness in kind

Or maybe we are the people
terrified by our lot in life wondering how we got caught up in such an endeavor?  

Whose to say?

a shale-brittle afternoon hoses

down the pathways of its

April Garden, with a thin smoke.

a single cloud stretched to a wisping

spark that aches.

landward oceans sinking underground--

helped skyward.

color to the everchanging perceiver--

for no sake of its own.

never to recollect what it is called as

if by name.

marked roots from the flip glaze of

calendar years.

A lukewarm pile of fresh *****
And the scattered pieces of a broken heart
Or some other wildly clichéd dross
A vague color between green and grey
Maybe some recent cigarette butts
In it are uncomfortable memories
Immortalized vindictive shards of the past
A boot print to assert the endless shame

Nothing positive is ever in *****
It's a relief of pain and dullness
It contains the distilled essence of heartache

I haven't thrown up in years
I must have so much pent up waste in me
Waste of the self, garbage of the soul
Unholy, rancid, putrid, odorous *****
Or am I perhaps forgetting something?

There is tranquil solitude in *****
Isolated, cold, mechanical self-reflection
Representations of pathetic shame
Cruel hatred in regurgitated carrots and corn
No disgust except that which the perceiver suggests

What point is there in disgust and regret then?
The ugly and incapacitating truth escaped

Perhaps the reason I do not, is because I am!
Quetzal, the drunken ***** of the Holy Spirit
Reflecting all the disgust God hides
Transposed onto unshapely fractures
Cavities and chasms, gaping on the cloth of Eden

Become as *****, lukewarm and odorous!
The purest and cleanest reflection of God's adoration

A hidden halo shines above your head
My hero
when I played with the twitching fires of death
It was you who took my singed fingers by the hand
Blinded by the masquerade of unearthly expectations
My brain left rattled
Demons singing a nervous chorus
You saw through my calm exterior surface
You shape shifter you!  
You morphed into any role I needed you to
You saw the things I had yet to be
What I had to live for, what I was to become
All the sights I had yet to see
Trained me diligently
for all the obstacles I had yet to succumb
Provided me with the confidence and armor to live on
Perceiver until the bulb of my life dies and my rightful time has come

Yet I sit here
Helpless, unable to do a thing
To shelter you from all the hardships
You've been cursed with
Life is a cruel, deadly serpent
I live in fear of the day it shall constrict around your neck
Swipe your soul from the earth's bed
Blasted life with it's under-tow currents
Vindictive earth with its cyclical  ways
But I suppose I have you to blame
It was you who had given me the strength to stay
For better and for the worst of days


Even when the fog cleared
When the sky was no longer grey
When at last all the demons had finally gone away
You stayed

Outside of language structuring and more into the rhetoric of philosophy;
Logos, within the frame of reference of 2nd person perspective, corresponds to our inner monologues. The mind's speech.

1st person - Perceiver - Person
2nd person - Perception - Place
3rd person - The Perceived - Thing

So whereas from the 1st person perspective, thought is merely an attribute of perception - 2nd person sees the mind as a more physical place.
A liminal space between the material & immaterial.
Therein, thought which is the inner monologue can be offered body. You can personify thought as a whole, personify thoughts in sets, or in singulars. So 3rd person would be thought which examines or experiences itself.

You can be lost in the forest
Riding on you bike
Galloping on horses
Putting up a fight
Marching to music
Baking a cake
or catching a school bus
before a swim in the lake

You can be a reader
Or the one written about
Maybe a perceiver
Without any doubts
You can be a page turner
maybe one who turns around
You could be lost in a forest
And never be found

How difficult it is to quit being
God in this dangerous swirling world
Called life which arises from the ego
State with conscious and preconscious thought
Realms that rapidly flow from moment to brief
Moment presenting a false linear
Image of perception perceiver and
Perceived as three distinct intermingling
Entities where in truth only a oneness
Does exist here and now but quit i must
To loose the hold of bone deep taloned fears
Which are a cause and caused resultant in
This present mind of dreamer and the dream

Mostly a head
With a big absorbing sensing *****
At the mouth
A great column conveys into her perceiver
And keeps moving through
The back of her head
Into a distant vanishing point
Everything is stretched and smooshed
In the yellow umbilical column
All the information from each moment
Runs down the column into her
She feeds and reads the information
Time moves for her to be nourished
With all that happens
In our world which generates the information
She consumes.

Unlock the inner perceiver
Nothing more than a day dreamer.
Take me to a place of unimaginable sights.
Big waves with pretty lights.
I contemplate my existence to a spec.
We are just a space in retrospect
What is this life that we seek
Something unobtainable we peak.
An empty hour glass because time is not real
Make your own life it's only what you can feel.

I touch the mirror thinking i know
       the truth of reflection
Not separate but i moving i stare
       mesmerized in dream worlds
Flat      two dimensional      pieces of now
       pride swells to safety mastery thought
Of all claimed a union intimate wisdom
       if but shyly humbly
An ant whispers      hallucinating lions roar
       lions will      and billions of other ants
       see deluded      gold bushy mane
       carnivore teeth      breath of flesh
       eater
Braincarving rationalized existence
       ecstatic hope or fear for the moment
       in mind
Sight touch sound taste smell
       consciousness sensate
Variables infinite shaped perceiver
       perceiving perceived perceptions
Wave after turbulent wave
       light      gravity
       x-ray      thought
       one object      cause effect
       different view
Holding together a mote of cosmos
       non other than we this
       mountain meru

Truth
Distorted by the perceiver
People fight to prove theirs
Reminders of how primal we are